


we ate a twix bar at the uffizi

by shakespearesque



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Italy, M/M, Sugar, why does harry know so much about art, why is louis, why is this so fluffy it's like cotton candy but stupider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:19:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespearesque/pseuds/shakespearesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry knows a lot about art and Louis is 100% always cool with going to Italy. So Harry takes Louis to Florence and they do things involving art. (As in, visit the Uffizi Gallery.) <br/>Also, Louis is obsessed with sugar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we ate a twix bar at the uffizi

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my actual trip to the Uffizi. In this ideal world, Louis and Harry go out in public and literally no one recognizes them.

Louis and Harry are in Florence and it’s actually sort of a secret, so don’t tell anyone.

To hear Harry tell it (and you probably don’t want to ask him for the story, it’s long and there is no climactic scene), he accidentally picked up a book about the Renaissance last week and read through it and ended up wanting to go on a secret vacation (with Louis, of course) to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence to see some of the art he’d read about. Really, Louis thinks it’s because he’s still a little bit mad at Liam for pulling his trousers down onstage and he wants to get away for a few days, not that Harry would ever even allude to being angry at anyone but himself nor admit to wanting to escape.

Louis’s more than willing to admit it for him, though. “That _was_ kind of a dicky thing to do,” he says when they get into their tiny Florentine hotel room, and Harry looks at him like he has no idea what Louis’s talking about.

“Are you talking about that guy who threw his cigarette butt on the ground out front?” Harry asks, doe-eyed. Louis isn’t sure when Harry became such a good actor. Unless he’s serious. Oh god.

“Sure,” Louis sighs, already resigning. Harry just pulls both of their suitcases through the door and sets them down next to each other.

“This is a weird shower,” Louis says, then, looking into the bathroom. He sees now that he probably shouldn’t have let Harry book the hotel room and everything, because of course Harry would pick a hotel he deemed “authentic Italian experience” and _it doesn’t even have a real shower_. It’s this pop-out mess and Louis explicitly does not know how to build his own shower.

“It’s kind of quaint,” Harry says, peeking at it over Louis’s head. “Though we both probably cannot fit in there.”

Louis nudges back into Harry’s chest slightly, warming up with Harry pressed all against him. “There’s a bidet,” he says in response. “Remember that time you were sitting on one and we had it running on you and I wanked you off? That was kind of gross but it looked really good.”

Harry snorts but nuzzles his face into Louis’s hair. “That actually was gross, why did we do that?”

“Horny, I don’t know,” Louis says flippantly. “Maybe we could do it again.”

Harry laughs and wraps his arms around Louis’s ribcage. “Let’s go to bed. I didn’t get to sleep on the plane.” 

Louis nods and turns around in Harry’s arms. “I’m glad I took you on this trip,” he says, his mouth muffled on Harry’s shoulder. Harry laughs again, tired, doesn’t correct Louis even though Louis had next to no share in the planning and execution of the trip.

“I’m glad, too.”

They change for bed and brush their teeth squished up at the tiny sink.

“What are we doing tomorrow, exactly?” Louis asks quietly when he’s all warm under the surprisingly soft sheets next to his unsurprisingly soft Harry.

“Art museum,” Harry says. “Shopping, maybe.”

Louis nods into the pillow. “Gelato,” he adds.

Harry rubs a thumb across Louis’s hip. “Lots of gelato,” he agrees. 

“Goodnight,” Louis says.

“’Night,” Harry says. 

Louis quite likes Harry, not that that’s new information.

\---

Louis wakes up when the sun is searing through the thin curtains and the first thing he sees is Harry sitting up backwards next to him, tugging long socks on with his hair dripping onto the bed and bare shoulders pink from the warm water of the shower. Louis accidentally makes a snuffly noise and Harry turns around and beams at him.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says.

“Sun’s already up,” Louis mumbles groggily. Harry does a dimple thing because that barely made sense and Louis pushes his face back into the pillow. “Don’t be cute. I just woke up.”  
Harry laughs, then. “Wake up faster. We have things to do!” He rolls back onto the bed, wet hair sticking to his forehead, jeans rolled up around his ankles, and tugs Louis up so he can kiss him once on each cheek. Louis groans.

“I said don’t do that. Thing. Cute.”

Harry shakes his head and little drops of water his Louis in the face. “Not being cute.”

Louis sits up, awake now, and grins mischievously. “No, not now that you’re getting me all _wet_. I have to shower now to rid myself of this.” He simultaneously stands and slides off his boxers and goes into the bathroom with absolutely nothing but his magnificent naked body. He’s going to use Harry’s shampoo and soap and toothpaste and flannel because he’s revengeful like that.

When he’s all shiny clean and minty fresh, he goes out into the room again and Harry’s got a shirt on and coffee for both of them and some kind of breakfast bread on a plate and is practically vibrating, propped up against the headboard. 

“Don’t get the bed all crumby, you excited little child,” Louis says, grinning and sliding up next to him. “Give me some.”

“Finish getting dressed first,” Harry says, and Louis complies because Harry is giddy with excitement and he absolutely loves when Harry’s like this. 

“Where’d you go?” Louis asks, tugging on his boxers.

“The lobby,” Harry says. “They had this big line of food, but I just picked some…this…and made us coffee.”

“’S it good?” Louis asks, and reaches out for a bit of the bread. He’s got his trousers on and one arm through a shirtsleeve, that’s got to count for something.

“Yeah!” Harry replies, and he gives Louis the whole thing because he was good and at least started getting dressed when Harry told him to. Louis doesn’t usually listen when Harry tells him to do something, because usually it’s Harry who does the listening. This is Harry’s trip, though, so he’s allowed to be a little bossy if he wants. At least he thinks that’s how it works?

“Mmph,” Louis says, half of the whole thing in his mouth. He does a thumbs up when it’s apparent he will not be able to form words. “Italy,” he moans when he can speak again. “Delicious. Did they have gelato down there?”

Harry distractedly slaps Louis’s hand away from the other bread. “You be patient. Gelato is not a breakfast food. You will get gelato when it’s gelato time.”

“When’s gelato time?” Louis asks.

“After Uffizi time.”

Louis stomps his little bare feet like a baby gorilla. He tries to make an angry face like one, too, but he can’t because Harry’s doing that stupid dimple thing again and he’s standing up and telling Louis to put the rest of his shirt on so they can leave. Louis stops trying to be a baby gorilla and obeys. He’s particularly obedient today. If it gets any worse it’s going to start to weird Harry out.

\---

Louis and Harry are walking up to the center of the city, coffees cradled in their frozen hands (it’s quite cold for spring, much colder than they expected) when Harry kind of squawks and pulls out his phone. 

“Look!” he exclaims, snapping a picture. Louis looks. Well, it’s not like he couldn’t have looked, the thing’s huge. “The Duomo. It’s gorgeous! Lou, look at the colors and stuff.” Harry excitedly lists off a bunch of facts, taking pictures of each thing in turn and marveling at the whole of it. The bell tower was designed by Giotto, he starts, and then the dome was designed by Brunelleschi and that is a tympanum and it’s a Gothic cathedral see except that’s really a French thing and look at these sculptures did you know this is actually called the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore and oh turn around look at the baptistery look at those doors on it Louis _look_. 

“It really is nice,” Louis says, and he means it. He hugs Harry for a second, feels him kind of shivering and hugs him for longer. “I like when you go all encyclopaedia on me,” he whispers in Harry’s ear, and then pulls away, giggling, and tugs Harry’s beanie down over his eyes.

“Hey!” Harry laughs, and pushes it back up. “I’m trying to look at these _doors_ , here. They’re called the Gates of Paradise, and they were made by Lorenzo Ghiber—” Louis pulls Harry abruptly by the wrist to get a bit closer to the big golden doors of the baptistery and maybe also a little bit to shut him up. They dodge a big group of American students and manage to get right up to the front. 

Louis looks at the gold relief panels of the doors for a bit. “They’re not the originals,” he says, matter-of-fact, almost like he’s adding onto Harry’s identification of them. “The real ones are in the Duomo museum.” 

Harry whips around, surprised. “How’d you know that?”

Louis grins smugly. “Your big Renaissance book was sitting in our bed for a week.”

“I didn’t know you could read,” Harry says in an affected Young Draco Malfoy accent. He pokes Louis in the ribs and Louis laughs loudly.

“I actually can’t,” he sighs, playing along. “I just looked at all the pretty pictures.”

Harry laughs behind a hand fisted in a jumper sleeve. “I’m kidding,” he says. He leans down a couple inches to Louis’s ear and lowers his voice. “I’m glad you read it.” It’s stupid, it’s not like he said anything special, but Louis gets the sudden urge to put his hands up Harry’s shirt and feel the contours of his chest and bite his nipples and technically he could, he guesses, but he’s going to restrain himself until tonight. He’s got plans, okay. They’re on a secret vacation and Louis is going to do whatever he wants to do with Harry. Besides, Harry planned all the day activities. Louis should at least help out and plan the ones for the night.

He comes back to earth and Harry’s still admiring the panels of the door. “Sick,” he breathes. “It’s just amazing.”

Louis grins. “Come on, Hazza. Our tickets for the museum are for 12 o’clock.”

“Time’s it now?”

“What do you think? It’s 11:30. There’ll probably be a queue.” Louis drags Harry by the wrist away from the doors and Harry swats futilely at the fingers clamped around his arm. 

“Since when are you Mr. On-Time-o’clock?” Harry asks as he’s being dragged along, grinning because he can’t help it. He’s getting all excited again, excited about the museum and the cold air and the city of Florence because it’s absolutely beautiful and Louis is holding onto him like if he lets go Harry’ll float away like a helium balloon and he likes it.

He _feels_ a bit like a helium balloon, is the thing. Free and up in the clouds and light and happy. Sometimes tour can make him feel like an anchor in a bad way, but he’s free right now and like a balloon in a good way. It’s good and he’s letting Louis pull him along through the market (“We’ve got at least a minute to look, the queue’s not going anywhere!” he’s saying, sliding a faux silk scarf between his thumb and forefinger) and then Louis gives up because the people working at the market won’t stop saying “Le piace? Le piace?” like he’s going to buy something.

“ _Non_ mi piace,” Louis grumbles when they’re out of the market. 

“Buongiorno,” Harry says pointlessly.

“Amazing,” Louis says. 

“That was like Chinatown,” Harry says. “Non mi piace Chinatown.”

“We sure know a lot of Italian,” Louis says. He looks up the cobblestone path. “Are we almost at the Uffizi?”

Harry shrugs and then points at a street sign on a building. “We’re on the right road, but we have to turn somewhere up there.” Louis shrugs too and just pulls Harry along. At some point down the street Harry manages to unlatch Louis’s fingers from his wrist and hold his hand properly, and Louis stops leading them so he can walk right next to Harry.

“Let’s turn here,” Louis says. “I think this is it.”

They do, and they’re greeted by a massive bronze sculpture and a wide open square and a fountain and more sculptures and there’s a replica of Michelangelo’s David and yeah. This is it.

“That guy looks like he’s sucking the other guy’s prick,” Louis says nonchalantly as they walk past a massive sculpture of two naked men on the way to the courtyard of the Uffizi. Harry looks up and chokes on a laugh.

“You’re not going to be rude in the Gallery, are you,” Harry asks flatly with the dimple thing happening on his face again. Louis smirks.

“No promises.”

“There are going to be a lot of nude sculptures,” Harry warns. “And I’m going to be embarrassed if you—”

“I know, I know,” Louis interrupts, waving a hand around. “I read the book.”

Harry grins. “That doesn’t mean you aren’t going to be rude.”

Louis pretends to think about it for a second. “Okay, I won’t be rude,” he says without much conviction. He winks and pulls Harry by the hand to the queue at Door 3 (it’s labelled nicely for the people who have literally no idea what they’re doing, i.e, everyone) and they step into the flow of people.

They go through a security check, have to take off their big coats and walk through a metal detector, and they get their tickets scanned and finally they’re in the building housing one of the most famous—if not the most famous—Renaissance galleries in the world. Harry’s bouncing up and down on the toes of his Converse again.

“Lou, Lou, Lou, this is so exciting. I’m so excited. We’re going to see so many things. Put your coat back on, hurry!”

Louis deliberately takes 30 extra seconds with his coat.

“Hey,” Harry pouts when he notices. Louis’s heart breaks for a millisecond.

“Christ,” he says, and he puts his coat fully on quickly and hugs Harry around the middle. Harry presses a kiss to the side of Louis’s head.

“I forgive you,” Harry murmurs, even though he doesn’t have to. Louis looks up at him and kisses him on the mouth, soft and maybe a little bit teasing with a tiny swipe of tongue he probably shouldn’t be using in public, and Harry pushes into it minutely like he can’t stop himself.

“I’m glad,” Louis says when he steps back. It’s possible Harry looks sort of dazed right now because Louis hasn’t kissed him properly since before they got on the plane yesterday, but Louis is just going to pretend not to notice and walk with Harry through the gallery and try not to touch him too much. It’d probably be bad if he got that itch he gets sometimes (and he can feel it coming, it’s just on the horizon, it’s why he has to be careful) and has to drag Harry out of the place and all the way back to the hotel so he can kiss and bite and suck on every inch of Harry’s body, until he’s shaking and absolutely wrecked and dying to come and then Louis says something, some mumbled curse or profession of love and that just _does_ it and—

“Alright?” Harry asks, smirking now. He’s bouncing on his toes again and, okay, okay, cool it, zippy.

“Just fine,” Louis replies, voice not completely there. He focuses on the task at hand. Get back in the game. He’s following Harry, right. Things are going to be a little backwards for the time being.

“Then let’s go!” Harry says, and he grabs Louis’s hand (Louis isn’t supposed to be touching Harry right now but he can’t _not_ ) and takes him up a huge marble flight of stairs. 

“God,” Harry breathes when they’re on the third step. They aren’t even in the gallery yet, Louis wants to say, not even up the flight of stairs, but Harry is staring at the gilded ceiling above the staircase and the relief sculptures on the walls and the bust statues up ahead and it looks like he might be having a minor heart attack. “It’s fantastic.”

Louis rolls his eyes fondly and jiggles his wrist, which is still encased by Harry’s long fingers. Harry snaps to attention. “Up the stairs, Harry,” he reminds, and Harry grins goofily. 

“Right. Yeah.” He tightens his grip and pulls Louis up another flight of stairs to the gallery floor. “Roman sarcophagi,” he whispers when they pass some big marble box things adorned with crowded relief sculptures of people and horses. “And a portrait of Hadrian,” he says, pointing at a bronze bust.

“Portrait?” Louis asks. Portraits are paintings of people, even Louis knows that. Harry, though, Harry shakes his head minutely.

“It’s what he looked like, so it’s a portrait,” Harry says, but it isn’t didactic in a condescending way. Besides, Louis wants to learn from Harry about art things, because Harry knows one thousand percent more about art than Louis does. (Louis probably knows two thousand percent more about playing football than Harry does, but that’s a different story.)

“Oh. Do you like these sculptures?” Louis asks, curious. They’re standing at the top of the stairs by a doorway where a man is sitting and tearing off ends of tickets, and Louis kind of wants to actually go in now, but if Harry wants to look at the boring ancient Roman busts he’ll be patient for him. 

“Not at all, really,” Harry confides, and he grins and pulls Louis to the door and hands the guy both of their tickets and they’re officially in. Harry’s dimples are out (apparently they like art too) and his eyes are sparkling and Louis is kind of excited too because they’re at the end of a massive sculpturally decorated corridor with huge windows looking out on Florence and the Arno River and the ceiling is covered in frescoes (fresco is the other thing he learned about when he read literally three pages of the Renaissance book)(oops, don’t tell Harry he only read three pages) and gold and it’s amazing, really. Harry pulls Louis into the first room of 50, probably, and that’s when the journey really begins.

\---

The thing is Harry likes to tell Louis the deeper meaning of all the paintings and Louis likes trying to create his own.

They’re in the Botticelli Room (there are only two Botticelli paintings in here but it’s called the Botticelli Room because that makes it sound cooler, Louis thinks) and there are small crowds of people around two big paintings with glass over them. The Birth of Venus and Primavera, Harry tells him.

“Okay,” Harry murmurs when they get up to Primavera. “This was commissioned by Lorenzo Medici when he got married, well, I think it was Lorenzo, if it wasn’t him it was some other Medici, and the fruit is a symbol for…” Louis kind of tunes him out while he makes his own story in his head.

The painting is both extremely dark and extremely light, with dark trees in the background and little orange-y fruits in the trees and several very pale women in sheer gauzy clothing in the foreground and there’s one man on the left and on the right is a blue grim reaper-looking thing taking one of the women. Louis interprets it to mean that you should be careful when you’re in a dark orange grove because someone could kidnap you. He also thinks maybe Harry should invest in some sheer clothing. That would be fun. Harry does have that black mesh shirt, but he hasn’t worn it in a while. Maybe Louis can get him to wear it without anything underneath…

“…So there are several interpretations, really,” Harry finishes. “It’s a nice painting, isn’t it?”

Louis nods. It is pretty. He wishes he could make art that was pretty. Sometimes he draws Niall but he makes him look silly because Niall is silly and Louis isn’t that great at drawing. “I like it,” he says.

“I do too.” Harry looks at the other paintings in the room for a while and they move on.

There are loads, and Harry tells Louis stuff about quite a few of them, and by the time they’re halfway down the hall Louis feels like he knows some real artist shit.

“This is that story in Greek mythology about Zeus turning into a swan and somehow getting this woman pregnant and then she gives birth to some egg babies and they’re twins,” Harry says when they’re in a quiet room with mostly portraits of German men in it. 

“Beautiful,” Louis says. “Your storytelling has improved vastly.”

Harry shoves Louis playfully, his lip between his teeth, and Louis blinks up at him because he can sort of feel the itch warming in his stomach and he’s trying to stave it off until at least the Caravaggio room (which Harry said was last and held a painting he really wanted to see.) Harry knows that look and he smirks at Louis, not-so-subtly pulls the back of his jeans up and tight around his tiny boy booty and rubs his hands around and down the tops of his thighs. He makes it seem so innocent, he does, but Louis isn’t stupid.

“Maybe I’ll be even better in the next room?” Harry asks, reaching for Louis’s hand to take him over there, and Louis doesn’t even remember what they were talking about.

“Sure,” he says, and he allows Harry to take him over there. 

They eventually end up in a room with a painting Harry stares at for a while, one he identifies without looking at the plaque as “Venus of Urbino, Titian.” It’s a naked chick lying on a bed and there’s a dog next to her and her feet are tiny and there are two women—maids, probably—in the back digging in a trunk thing.

“Paint me like one of your French girls,” Louis says, because he knows Harry likes it when people appropriate Titanic quotes. 

“I,” Harry says, kind of choked-off. He looks at Louis and back to the painting and at Louis again and Louis realizes that Harry’s actually thinking about painting Louis naked. Louis suddenly wants to fling himself out of the windows on the other side of the corridor and into the Arno.

“Harry, god, I was…Titanic, like. Um.” He doesn’t want to say what he’s thinking, something about how hot that would be, but his cheeks are pink and Harry probably knows.

“I know,” he says roughly. “Jesus, though.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Anyway, um.” Louis grins, now. He likes when Harry gets a little ruffled. He’s been letting Harry get him ruffled all day and now he has a foothold and can get back on top. Like, literally.

“Venus is just a general name they give to female nude portraits, though there are some with actual names. This one…”

Louis listens but doesn’t retain. Harry’s pointing out something with the tiny feet and her wide hips and saying “asymmetrical balance” and Louis is nodding and when Harry goes quiet he studies Louis’s face for a few seconds longer than what’s usually considered comfortable.

“What sort of gelato are you going to get after this?” Harry asks, one of those I’m-hiding-something-but-I’m-really-bad-at-being-secretive smiles on his face. Louis chooses to ignore it.

“I dunno yet, Harold, I’ll have to look!”

Harry does a little fist bump with the air. “Excelente.”

Louis chooses to ignore that, too. They go out of the room and turn the corner (there’s another section of wide, fancy corridor for them to go down) and make their way through the halls.

One is full of nude sculpture. Sculpted, idealistic men on pedestals with thick leg muscles and accentuated hipbones and waists that dip in and curve out and strong jaws and Louis might be drooling a little, not that he’s going to say anything.

“Christ, look at the—,” he starts, but stops himself when Harry turns to him, half-smirking and raising his eyebrows.

“The what?” he asks.

Louis shakes his head. “The, ah, detail. Master sculptor. Who did these? Michelangelo? They’re so accurate. Wow.”

Harry laughs. “No, those are in the Accademia.”

Louis doesn’t know what that is. He just likes to look at male bodies. They walk around the room quietly after that, look at the marble men in what seem to be advanced yoga poses, and Harry stops in front of one right by the door. “Warrior II?” he says, his voice lilting at the end when it wants to turn into a laugh.

Louis doesn’t get it, but he laughs because Harry’s laughing at his own joke and Harry’s just really cute, okay. (Later, he’ll Google “Warrior too” and be redirected and find out that the sculpture is standing exactly in the Warrior II yoga pose and he’ll laugh and Harry will ask him what he’s doing and he’ll say “Just thought about that hilarious joke you made earlier, love” and Harry will smile at him like he hung the moon.)

They leave the room of Damn Good Bodies (Louis names it that, the museum didn’t name it that) and find that they’re at the end of the corridor. There’s a massive sculpture of a muscular, hulking man and some boys and looping snakes biting them in the ribs and encircling their thighs and it’s emotional and expressive and Harry is hopping gleefully from foot to foot in front of it. (It’s probably been 4 hours. Louis doesn’t know how Harry still has so much energy.)

“Lay-awk-oh-wan!” Harry says slowly, grinning, emphasizing each syllable. “L-a-o-c-o-o-n. And His Sons. Though I read this isn’t the Greek original, still, just. Look.” Louis looks. It’s amazing, actually. 

“What’s the story?” Louis asks. He wants to know, this time.

Harry sighs. “I think this is how it goes. Laocoon was a Trojan priest and he had apparently warned the Trojans about bringing the Trojan horse into the city, you know, during the war. So when he went to an altar with his sons, the gods, who favored the Greeks, sent snakes to kill him. And this is the snakes killing him and his sons.”

“Oh,” Louis says, because that’s kind of intense. He reaches out and hugs Harry, then, just because, and says, “I love you.”

Harry laughs quietly. “I love you double.”

“Triple,” Louis says back. “You’re a little smartypants, and it’s cute.”

Harry doesn’t really know what to say to that, because he doesn’t really think he’s a smartypants. He just likes to learn things. “Quadruple,” he says, and that ends it because neither of them actually know what the word for “five times” is.

\---

There’s a little café at the end right there and they get hot chocolates and a Twix bar to share (Louis desperately needs sugar) and sit down on the floor by the stairs. Harry’s sitting, propped up against Louis, eyebrows furrowed and eyes looking at nothing, when he says, “Judith Slaying Holofernes!”

Louis looks at him rather confusedly. 

“The whole of the Caravaggio Room, actually. Did we miss it?” Harry’s slurping down his hot chocolate, now, standing up and pulling Louis with him by the hand. “You almost done? Let me have a bite of the Twix bar and you can have the rest. I think this is a map right here. Hold on.” He rather frantically walks over to a black sign by the opening into the café and scans it. He walks back over miming wiping sweat off of his forehead.

“We almost had a situation,” he says. “It’s on the second floor. We’re on the fourth.” Louis laughs and sticks a Twix bar into his mouth. He holds the other one in the package out to Harry. Harry takes it and pokes it out of the hole and bites it. 

“Sugar,” Louis says, licking chocolate off his thumb, “is something I really quite needed. I am feeling normal again at last.”

“You’ve never been normal,” Harry laughs. “You want to go down there now?” Louis shrugs because, sure, and they walk down the stairs with their mostly-empty hot chocolates in their hands and Twix bars sticking out of their mouths like candy cigars.

“I think ‘Sugar’ is a good name for you,” Louis says when they’re at the landing on Floor 3. Harry looks at him blankly. “Yeah, it is,” Louis decides. He grins, tosses his and Harry’s empty cups into the bin by the banister going down the rest of the stairs, and takes Harry’s hand.

\---

“This is it,” Harry says, after he and Louis have walked what seems like a mile through portions of the gallery in renovation.

“Caravaggio Room,” it says on the wall.

Louis looks up at the painting Harry is framing with his noodly arms. “It’s…bloody,” he says.

Harry grins. “Story?” he asks. 

Louis nods. 

“It’s Biblical,” Harry starts. “The woman with the sword is Judith, and the man being decapitated is Holofernes, a general who is ruling in Israel, but he isn’t supposed to be. The Israelites don’t like him. Judith is an Israelite and she seduces Holofernes and he invites her into his tent for…you know…and later when she goes she brings her maid—look, she’s helping her hold him down—and they slice the guy’s head off. Well. Not so much slice, this looks really hard. More like…saw.”

Louis swallows. “Badass.”

“And this was painted by a woman. It’s sort of an interesting feminist thing,” Harry says. 

Louis nods. It’s kind of gross, but fascinating. The longer he looks at it the more he likes it. And he likes that Harry likes that it’s a Girl Power thing. He reads the plaque and thinks he might have liked to live in the 1600s. “I like it,” he finally says. Harry grins.

“Sick. You want to get out of here?”

Louis grins, too. “You done looking?”

Harry nods and smooths out the hem of Louis’s jumper. “All done,” he says, and he grins anew and holds his hand out and Louis takes it and they follow the “USCITA” signs all the way to the _uscita_. 

\---

There’s a little old gelato shop on the way back to the hotel (well, there are actually dozens of little old gelato shops) but they choose one and stop there and Louis’s eyes light up as he scans all the flavors in the bright fluorescent case in front of him. Vanilla, chocolate chip, chocolate, mango, butter pecan, strawberry, pistachio…the names are all in Italian but he knows what they are just by looking and they all look _good_. 

“Buongiorno,” he greets the short girl standing behind the case.

“Buongiorno!” she says.

“What should I _get_ ,” Louis whines, turning to Harry, but Harry’s gone. 

Shit.

“Um,” he says to the girl, and he flounders for a bit before he holds up a finger to signify he’ll be back in _uno_ minute. He runs out of the shop and looks either way down the street, but he doesn’t see dark wavy hair peeking out of a blue beanie or Harry’s green coat or his brown suede boots, he only sees well-dressed Italian men and a large group of Asians with cameras and a pretty blonde girl giving him the eye. And people walking. So many people.

“Harry?” he calls out, tentatively. He finds his phone in his back pocket and checks it for messages. (The screen reads “ **Niall Farted:** where are u guys!!, **Zayniepoo:** lou????? :( , **Liam Goddamn Payne:** louisssss ur mum called meee where did u and hary go off to??” when he wants it to read “ **Babe:** be right back Lou :) .xx”)

He ducks his head and unlocks his phone just so the messages clear and someone claps him on the back. 

“Lou,” Harry says, and fucking—he was only gone 30 seconds but that wasn’t _okay_.

“Harry, Jesus, I was pissing myself.” Louis frowns.

Harry grins with dimples and shoves his hands in his coat pockets. “I’m sorry, pet, I just ran into the shop next door for a second.”

Louis still wants to be mad. “Don’t call me ‘pet,’” he says. “Don’t run off again, either.”

A crease forms between Harry’s eyebrows and his lower lip juts out almost imperceptibly and Louis still wants to be mad but Harry looks actually hurt and he can’t. He pulls Harry into a hug. “Sorry, sugar, I just. Please don’t do that. Why'd you go in there?”

Harry shrugs, kind of, still in Louis’s arms, and says, “Just wanted to look for a second, that’s all. Did you get your gelato?”

Louis shakes his head, looks up the few inches to see Harry’s face. “I turned to ask you what I should get and you were gone.”

Harry reaches up and strokes Louis’s cheek with a thumb. “I’m sorry. Come on, I’ll buy it for you.”

Louis picks chocolate chip ( _stracciatella_ ) and lets Harry have a little bite. “The boys have been texting us,” he says as Harry licks a chocolate chip off of the spoon. Harry rolls his eyes.

“We’ll be back in a couple days,” he says.

“Liam spelled your name wrong,” Louis adds, and he takes the spoon from Harry so he can eat the whole thing as quickly as possible. He’s been waiting a long time for this.

Harry laughs. “Figures. Is that good?” 

Louis nods, shoveling a big bite into his mouth. “Everything I ever dreamed of!” 

Harry grins. “You’re everything _I’ve_ ever dreamed of.”

Louis chokes for a second on a chocolate chip. “You’re such a dork,” he says when he can breathe again. Harry just grins back. He wasn’t kidding, and they both know it.

\---

There’s a moment when they’re walking back to their hotel room, down the 200s hallway, when Louis remembers how much he wants to touch Harry and suddenly the hallway is much too long.

“Come on,” he murmurs, and pulls Harry to their room. He unlocks the door as quickly as possible (it’s a real key, it’s not even a key card) and pulls Harry in. “Shirt off,” he says, throwing the key somewhere to the side and tugging Harry in by the belt loops. He kisses Harry before he can do anything else, holding him to his chest and tasting chocolate and Harry and warm lips and cold nose and Harry laughs wetly into Louis’s chin.

“How’m I s’posed to take off my shirt if you’re all over me,” he whispers, and Louis hates him. He hates logic. He needs both of these things to be able to occur at the same time.

“I dunno, figure it out, genius,” he whispers back, and licks into Harry’s mouth again, undoing the button on his jeans. Harry’s unzipping his own coat and there’s a rustle of plastic before he steps back and a small white rectangular thing falls out onto the ground.

“Did you steal a fucking painting,” Louis says flatly, breath audible, arousal sort of fuzzing up his brain a bit.

Harry laughs, and Louis can hear him breathing heavily, too. “No, I, shit. When I left earlier?” He picks it up off the ground and takes the bag off of it. 

It’s a paint set with tiny oil paints and a brush and a little canvas and Louis really doesn't care about it right now because he'd much rather be touching Harry than watching Harry show him his souvenir. Like, a lot.

“You said—earlier,” Harry says, holding it in one hand and stepping back up to Louis and kissing him with a wet smacking sound, “to paint you,” he slides his free hand to the button on Louis’s trousers, “like the Venus of Urbino.” He pops the button deftly and Louis walks him to the bed.

“I was kidding,” Louis says, pushing Harry down and falling in beside him, but he’s imagining it already and Harry’s eyes are dark and he looks so debauched Louis has to adjust himself a little.

“You want to,” Harry says. “You know you do, you’re—,” he crawls up and straddles Louis’s hips and looks down at him. “You’re getting hard just thinking about it. And I am too, even though I’m absolute shit at painting. Just—,” he bends down and kisses Louis “—let me.”

Louis groans a little. He was supposed to be in control after the gallery, dammit. Now Harry is going to make everything about art so he can control it. He’s sort of getting off on it, though, he’s got so much sugar in his system he’s aching to succumb to something (though usually that something is the sugar itself) and Harry’s presenting himself and he’s hard and kissing Louis’s sensitive, sensitive neck and Louis is only human. “Okay,” he says. Harry sucks particularly hard on a ticklish part of Louis’s neck and Louis actually whines. “Okay,” he says again. “Paint me.”

Harry grinds down once, twice, little short kitten grinds on Louis’s still-clothed cock, and then slides down and pulls Louis’s jeans and boxers down his legs. Louis sits up and kicks his jeans fully off and takes off his jumper and shirt and Harry takes off his own shirt, finally, and Louis sits on the edge of the bed, naked, wondering where Harry wants him to lay.

Harry’s unwrapping the paint set and the canvas so Louis decides he’s going to choose for himself. He gets up and pulls the thin duvet completely off of the bed and rolls the white sheets down. He props up the pillows and sits with his back against them, legs crossed, waiting for Harry to look up.

“Ready,” Harry says quietly with the canvas set up in front of him. He looks up at Louis and his breath hitches. “You look gorgeous,” he says.

“You strip too,” Louis says huskily from the bed. “I want to see how much you like this.”

Harry swallows and nods, takes off his jeans and boxer-briefs, sits cross-legged just like Louis is. “Can you—can you lay down?” Harry asks. Louis nods and shifts himself down the bed, half-hard cock bobbing slightly. "Oh," Harry sighs. “Can I please kiss you first, Louis, you look so—” Harry’s throat sounds tight, his own cock is nearly fully hard and all he’s doing is admiring Louis.

He makes to stand, to go to Louis, but Louis shakes his head. “You have to wait,” he says. He wants to kiss Harry, too, so badly, but he’s getting his thing—his power—back and it feels good. He wants to see Harry begging for it.

Harry’s quiet as he uncaps a paint tube. He presses the brush to the pigment and then to the canvas. “I’m—shit at this, so don’t laugh at it when I’m—when I’m done,” he says softly, the sob he gets in his voice when he’s really worked up already starting in the back of his throat. It’s something about Louis letting him do this, watch him and record what he looks like in this Florentine bed, flushed and getting harder every second and Louis is staring down at him and his lips are red and bitten and Harry can just see the mark he bit into Louis neck—

“Not gonna laugh,” Louis says. He’s watching Harry watching him and Harry is absolutely gnawing on his lip and Louis is worried if he bites much harder he’s going to bleed. “Don’t chew your lip off, love,” he says softly. “Gonna need it in a bit.” He looks down at his cock and it twitches when Harry releases his lip and looks at it too and swallows thickly. 

“Shh,” Harry says. “You’re moving too much.” He’s kidding, he can’t paint anyway, it doesn’t make a difference, but regardless it makes Louis sit still and watch Harry getting a different color pigment on his brush and shift in his seat a little. 

“Tell me what you’re painting,” Louis says. He’s getting impatient, he kind of wants to touch himself but he really wants Harry to do it and the situation’s just getting worse as Harry looks at him. 

“You,” Harry says. “Your legs. The curve of your hips.”

Louis just breathes. He lets Harry look at him and wants to put on a show and run his hand slowly up and down his cock and have Harry gagging for it, but he doesn't. He looks back at Harry. “What are you thinking about?” he asks. 

Harry’s cheeks pinken. He swipes the brush across the canvas without saying anything, looks at Louis and back down to his painting. “You,” he says.

“Yes, sugar, I’m thinking about you, too,” Louis says, supersaccharine. He grins and Harry takes a deep breath and wets his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“I’m thinking about how much I want to put my mouth on you. Where I want to put my mouth on you. What sounds you’ll ma—make.” He stutters sometimes when he’s like this and it makes Louis want to fuck him until he cries.

“Where?” Louis provokes, voice soft. Harry stills his hand and looks up at Louis’s face, presses his free palm to his weakly twitching dick in an attempt to still it, too. “Keep painting, love,” Louis says. “Don’t touch yourself yet.”

“Lou—Louis,” Harry says, and there’s the sob. He breathes for a second, gets himself under control, watches his slightly trembling hand moving across the canvas. “I want to kiss you so badly,” he says, looking at Louis again, “and I want to leave marks on your inner thighs, and I want to suck you, and.” He stops and Louis feels like he’s bound to the bed.

“Come here,” he whispers, and Harry all but throws the paintbrush onto the carpet and crawls onto the bed, up to Louis.

“I’m s-sorry, Lou, that I couldn’t finish it, but it was going to be horrible anyway,” he says as he kisses Louis’s chest. 

“Don’t worry about it, love, you did wonderful,” Louis says. He gets his hand on Harry’s cock and he’s already so wet, precome on his stomach where he’s been twitching, and Harry hisses and bites his lip in the indentations left from earlier.

“No, you,” Harry says breathlessly, though he isn’t stopping Louis’s hand yet. Louis just works him, smears around the wetness, sucks a thumb into his mouth as Harry watches. Harry moans and pushes Louis off of him. “Let me,” Harry says. He turns over and trails his lips down Louis’s stomach, scratches his nails against Louis’s skin and watches the goosebumps that form across his soft hips.

Louis’s breath catches when Harry goes down on him, sudden and new and ohsofuckingwelcome like it was their first time. Harry’s mouth is so warm and wet and Louis wants to push himself in, in, in but he can’t, and he tries to hold in a moan but it comes out and Harry moans right in sync, and shit shit shit “Shit,” Louis hisses.

Harry moans again and grinds himself against the bed. “Shit,” Louis hisses again. Harry squeezes his eyes shut and presses himself further into the bed. It’s a vicious cycle. He pulls off and Louis almost whines.

“You’re killing me, Lou,” Harry says, and his voice is growly like Louis loves and Louis’s hips cant upward of their own accord and Harry immediately licks up and sucks back down, filling his cheek with Louis’s cock and Louis is soclose.

“Harry, artist, sugar, fuck,” Louis is chanting all these things that don’t really make sense in the context of what’s happening but are all things that have led up to it and Harry is somehow whining around Louis’s cock and grinding out a solid rhythm into the mattress simultaneously and then coming, and Louis groans and plays it over once in his head—Harry’s mouth tightening around him without teeth and his eyes squeezed shut and the way his arse goes up in the air—and comes deep in Harry’s throat and Harry takes it all because he’s so good and Louis wants to cry because of how perfect his boy is.

He thinks belatedly that he kind of wanted to get Harry off himself, but there are few things he loves more than Harry humping things.

He breathes, lets Harry breathe and wipe his mouth off on his hand and suck a fleck of come off of the side of his thumb, even though it’s probably his own, and then flops over onto his stomach and grins at Harry.

“I love you so much,” he says. 

Harry nods, sleepy-eyed and content. “I love you pentatuple,” he replies as his eyes fall completely shut.

“Quintuple, love,” Louis says, because, oh, _no shit_. He grins. “Come up here so we can sleep, I’ll cover the yucky spot.” Harry opens his eyes a crack and caterpillar-crawls up next to Louis. Louis reaches over the side of the bed and picks up his t-shirt off the floor and puts it beside Harry’s leg. “’Night,” he says, and Harry smiles sleepily at him. 

“G’night,” he whispers, and then falls asleep.

\---

They both wake up at two A.M., having fallen asleep a bit after 7, and get up and take turns in the stupid fold-out shower and Harry cleans up the paint on the carpet and Louis puts some clothes on.

“Castor and Pollux,” Harry yawns, setting the unfinished painting flat on the desk across from the bed.

“What?” Louis asks.

“The egg twin baby swan things,” Harry says. “Those are their names.”

Louis laughs. “You just remembered that now.”

Harry nods.

“Let me look at your picture,” Louis says. Harry shrugs and hands it over to Louis. He looks at it for a while. 

It really isn’t any good, like Harry’d said, but Louis loves it. Harry had painted Louis just as he was laying on the bed—an outline of Louis on the bed, really, with hair and red lips and a body—but the Louis in the picture is holding a little tiny heart in his hand, and the little tiny heart is glowing with a little halo of yellow surrounding it.

“Story?” Louis asks, grinning. “I love it, by the way.”

“It’s awful,” Harry says bashfully. He pauses and sees that Louis is waiting for him to continue. “The story is,” Harry says, “Two boys met by the smallest chance of luck almost three years ago, and now one of them has the other’s heart. And the other boy, the one who’s given his heart away, has found that he never wants it back.”

“Sounds like Judith and Holofernes,” Louis says, squeezing the air as if he’s holding an actual human heart in his hand. “Quite bloody.”

Harry’s dimple appears and he smacks Louis on the calf. “I’m trying to be sweet, here,” he says, eyes twinkling.

“Oh, I know you are,” Louis says, and he sets the canvas aside and tackles Harry to the ground to shower him with kisses. “Love you, sugar-sweet,” he says into Harry’s curls, and kisses him on his cheeks and forehead and nose and chin and neck and lips.

“Love you, Venus,” Harry giggles. 

Louis is really, really, really glad he took Harry on this trip.

Even though he didn't.

**Author's Note:**

> better things than this will come after exam season...
> 
> also: I couldn't decide whether or not to include, like, picture references for the artworks? so i didn't. (whispers "google.com" into your ear)
> 
> also 2: my tumblr url is quentatino if u wanna chillz


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